Death Springs Eternal: The Rift Book III (17 page)

Yes
, said the man.
I can draw this out as long as you wish.
A day, a month, a year, forever.
However long it takes.

Fear washed over
Brandon
’s soul. The thought of being stuck in the state he was, as a mockery of humanity slowly withering away day by day but never dying, caused his heart to hammer in his chest. His breathing picked up pace, tears streamed down his cheeks. He opened his mouth to plead for mercy, but nothing came out.

His vision was abruptly washed out in a swirl of brilliant color. His surroundings meshed until they were a blur, and through this blur his life played out for the man to see: his childhood in Alabama; his wedding day; the moment Susan killed herself, the sound reaching his ears from a mile away as he waited; meeting General Bathgate; the journey north with the rest of the SNF; the plan to make Richmond the capitol of the New United Brotherhood; the best routes north, the number of men available as last Brandon knew, the strengths and weaknesses of the army, the supplies they did and did not have …

That is all. I have enough.

The swirling in his head ceased, and
Brandon
slumped forward. All energy drained from him. It felt like his head was attached to a bungee cord, bobbing below his shoulders. He panted and heard the rustle of fabric against concrete, a sure sign that the strange, unreal man, the bringer of pain, was standing up. It took all the strength he could muster for
Brandon
to make his neck work.

“Mow.
Ooay”
Now.
Do it.

The man nodded, leaned forward, and slowly pressed the blade of his large knife into
Brandon
’s chest. The cavity exploded with pain as the knife dragged downward, snapping his ribs, tearing muscle. Blood flowed out of him like from a fountain, pouring over his stomach to the empty crevasse where his manhood used to reside. He shrieked and squeezed his eyes shut, and then the cutting abruptly stopped.

Footsteps walking away from him.
The world growing hazy, but not hazy enough.
Brandon
’s eyes popped open and he gaped at the shining light of the doorway, and the man who stood within it.

We had a deal!
Brandon
’s mind screamed.

“We did,” the man replied. “And I kept my part of the bargain. It just might take longer than you might have liked.”

With that he turned and exited the building, leaving
Brandon
alone in his suffering. He writhed there on the floor of his concrete prison, toppling over, life fluid leaking out, trying to plead for mercy to any deity who’d listen.

Finally, five hours later, Brandon Hawthorne stopped breathing…only to wake up again a few minutes later. Then his jailer arrived, along with a few friends, and devoured what was left of his reanimated corpse while his eyes stared at the ceiling, without a thought in his head.

CHAPTER 6

PORTRAIT OF A LADY

Flames reached with snapping fingers toward the sky. Crackling sounded in the afternoon air, accompanying the scent of burning rubber and flesh. The crowd around the ditch, which had been an abandoned construction site at some point in the near past, backed up as the fire intensified. The heat was blistering, the stench overwhelming. Many turned away, fanning themselves to stay cool.

Those who worked at the edge of the crater had no such advantages. They wore gas masks and heavy jackets to shield themselves from the floating ash as they scooped up heaps of lye, spreading it out around the pit in an ever-expanding circle. Others trudged onward, lugging carts on which the diseased had been stacked, readying their morose inventory for incineration. It was all carried out with economic precision: those spreading the lye turning to the carts, dumping a few shovels full of the corrosive powder atop the bodies, before turning away and moving down the line; the two cart-haulers stepping to the front and tossing, one-by-one, the corpses into the fiery pit; the carts leaving and the lye-spreaders returning, covering up the spots where the cart wheels and haulers’ feet disturbed.

General Bathgate watched this scene play out over and over again, and pride filled him. He’d taught them well—well, Darrel Hotchkiss, a science teacher from Birmingham, had
actually
came up with the method of ridding the area of all those undesirable carcasses, but it
was
Bathgate who gave the final order. To see the plan in action was beautiful. He felt like a football coach after a great week of practice.

If only everything had gone so smoothly upon arriving in
Richmond
. He thought of the countless deceased—it wasn’t only the meandering dead that filled the carts, but many of his own men—and regretted not listening to Corporal Baker’s advice. The old Navy man had told him to wait it out once they saw the condition of the city, to see if the hordes continued to dwindle and die out. But no, Bathgate couldn’t have that. He felt impatient, needy for the new capitol to be his. And he paid for it. Four hundred and forty-eight men died during the week it took to clear the area. Not acceptable. At least Baker was among the deceased. At least he didn’t have to hear anyone say,
I told you so
.

He sighed and backed up a step, looking to his right, where Pitts stood, towering over him, nervously tugging one side of his handlebar mustache. His Lieutenant glanced down, raised his eyebrows, and gestured behind him with his thumb. Bathgate nodded, turned on his heels, and approached those he was obliged to.

Four men stood behind Pitts: Jacob Handley, head of the Church of Creation; Lester Porcello, former Army captain and the person in charge of the Porcello Syndicate and the Free Radicals; Pedro Morales, leader of the Latin quarter; and Dominic Ngyn, the mouthpiece of the Asian Select. There was so much tension between these four that Bathgate feared a stray spark from the fire could ignite the very air surrounding them. He definitely had a tightrope to walk here. These were the most important men in the SNF, other than himself of course. It was their input that brought about the Warrior’s Creed and the laws of the new constitution. He had to keep them happy.

“Gentlemen,” he said, and started pacing in front of them. “Welcome to the Mouth of Hell.”

Morales scowled. “Why are we here?”

“Yes,” added Handley. “Do tell, General.”

Bathgate grinned, showing his teeth. Pitts stepped up behind him, and the four leaders withdrew from their previously aggressive stances. The general had discovered it useful to never give an earnest smile; when he did, it was usually followed by something not so pleasant.

“I was recently contacted by Sergeant Jackson,” he said. “It seems he has some news.”

“Oh,” said Porcello, a single eyebrow raised.

“Yes. It seems he discovered a fairly large group of individuals in
Pennsylvania
, alive and well and living in a hotel. There are about two hundred of them, enough to lessen the sting of those lost in battle. Also, there are quite a few with medical training, something we have been sorely lacking for some time.”

He paused there and felt Handley’s eyes boring into him.

“What’s the catch?” he asked, fingering his Rosary.

“The catch,” said Bathgate, his grin returning, “is there are many who do not fit the criteria for inclusion among our people.”

That got Handley’s cheeks all red. Bathgate almost laughed.

“That so?” said Ngyn. “Why don’t you tell
Jackson
to just get rid of ’em?”

“Because,” Bathgate said, glaring, “they are a tight-knit group, well armed. We have to get them here, integrate them, and weed them out slowly.”

“Not going to happen,” said Morales with a shake of his head.

“Yes, it is,” said Bathgate.

“They won’t be in the city proper, will they?” asked Porcello.

The general spun and almost raised his hand.
“Of course not.
Do I look like an idiot to you? We’ll set them up in housing on the perimeter, near the universities. We’ll get them processed, get them comfortable, find out what they know…” he turned to Handley, “and then your men can have them.
All
of them.
To do what you will.”

Morales rolled his eyes and leaned on his rifle. “Are we done here, then?” he asked.

“No,” said Bathgate. “Go over there and stand still.” He motioned to the other three.
“You too.
I want you to see something.”

Porcello, Ngyn, and Morales complied, trudging across the sand
to
a spot farther away from the heat coming from the pit. Handley lingered, glowering.

“What is it, Jake?”

“It’s bad enough we have the spics and chinks here, you know.”

The general nodded and put on his best compassionate expression. “I understand, Jake. I really do. However, your ministry is not without fault. Concessions must be made in the name of unity, in the name of rebuilding. Hell, concessions have been made on
all
sides. The fact that Morales and Ngyn stand within five feet of
you,
have their men fight alongside yours, is proof of that.”

Handley’s lips pressed into a thin red line. Bathgate knew what that look meant. The man didn’t agree. He’d never see things the way the general did, which was unfortunate. Under any other circumstance, he would have been long gone by now. But Bathgate was a man of his word—if he said concessions must be
made,
he would have to make them, himself. He needed the legion of men under Handley’s control, so he had to compromise.

“Okay, I heard you,” he said when Handley’s mouth opened up again. “Now go wait with the others.”

As the white-haired, blue-eyed rat of a man stormed away, Pitts sidled up to the general. “They give me the creeps,” he said, still twirling his mustache

“I know.”

“I mean, I don’t get it. We got every other race of folk here, and they deal. Why can’t they deal with some coloreds, too?”

“It’s a tool, Greg.
Just a tool.”

“What’s that mean?”

The general smiled, this time without teeth.
“Control.
Give the rank and file something to rally against, an injustice to rage about, and reinforce it. And if there’s one thing most people have in common, from the Italians to the Irish to the Germans to the Latinos to the Asians, it’s that everyone hates a nigger.”

Bathgate saw Pitts blanch at his words and dropped the subject.

“Okay, back to the task at hand,” he muttered.

His eyes turned to those working at the edge of the scorching hole in the earth, heaping yellowish grit onto the soil. Sticking his fingers in his mouth he whistled, and all came to a stop.

“LINE UP!” he shouted.

Frantic movements followed as the workers tried to gather those on the other side of the burning hole. When they were all assembled, Bathgate tossed Pitts a knowing smirk and stepped toward the inferno, passing a casual glance behind him to make sure Handley, Porcello, Morales, and Ngyn were still watching.

“
Everyone,
masks off!” he ordered.

They all did as ordered, ripping the unwieldy masks off and holding them over their chests. An assortment of dirt-and-lye-smeared faces emerged. A few looked miserable, some looked to be coping, but all of them appeared nervous.

Bathgate scanned their faces, one-by-one, until he found what he was looking for—a young man, probably in his mid-twenties, with untidy brown hair and skittish, slanting eyes. His cheeks were red and irritated, with blisters forming on his forehead. His chest hitched with every other breath and snot poured over his upper lip, smearing the clumps of ash and lye,

“You,” said Bathgate, pointing at the soldier and smiling. “Step forward.”

The young man did as ordered. His shoulders seemed to relax just a bit. “Yes, sir?” he asked.

“Soldier, when did you get sick?” Bathgate asked.

“Sick? I’m sorry, sir, what’re you –”

Without hesitation, Bathgate unsheathed his sidearm, lifted it, and squeezed off a single shot at point-blank range. The young soldier’s eyes widened slightly just before the bullet plowed its way through the space between them. His nose imploded on impact and his head snapped back. The rest of the men in the line flinched, but did their best to remain motionless.

Bathgate hovered over the quivering body, pointed down, and addressed his four captains. “You see this?” he shouted. “Why did this happen?”

No one responded. Everyone appeared shocked.

Holstering his pistol, the general slammed a fist into his palm. “This is how it starts, people! The illness, RF, Wrathchild, chaos! A simple runny nose is all it takes. We were all
there,
we all saw it with our own eyes. Just because the undead no longer roam doesn’t mean we’re safe. There will be others to test us, other carriers of this illness of insanity.” He pointed at the fire raging behind him. “These flames will be stoked daily. Burn the dead! Let’s not allow Wrathchild to infiltrate our ranks! This poor soldier did not deserve the fate he received. Let us be vigilant. Let us be
FREE!
”

The captains, grins spreading across their faces, began clapping.
As did the men behind him.
Bathgate reached his arms out to the side and bathed in the sensation. After a few moments he turned to the soldiers and, in his most compassionate voice, said, “I appreciate your service and loyalty, and I’m sorry about what happened to your mate. It is unfortunate, but you do understand that drastic times call for drastic measures.
So into the fire with this one, too.
Diseased flesh must be burned. Let’s not forget that.”

Lye was dumped over the dead soldier, who was then grasped by the wrists and ankles and tossed into the pit. The fire grew momentarily stronger,
then
petered back down to a mild roar. Bathgate nodded to the captains, who saluted and departed the scene. The other men got back to work, hurrying to incinerate the dead while waiting for their shifts to end. Bathgate strode up to Pitts, who had an incredulous look on his large, glossy mug, and walked side-by-side with him to the waiting Humvee.

“What the hell was that?” Pitts asked.

“Again, it’s all about control,” the general replied, slapping the larger man on the back. “Not only give them something to rally against, but give them something to be afraid of. Promise to keep the people safe, and there’s nothing they won’t do for you.”